


can't call you a stranger (but i can't call you)

by ohcinnamon



Series: i live through my writing [3]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Drabble, First and Second Person, M/M, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 15:43:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13978302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohcinnamon/pseuds/ohcinnamon
Summary: "tell me how to feel about you now."you don't have to tell me,if you ever think of me.





	can't call you a stranger (but i can't call you)

**Author's Note:**

> title from "tell me how" by paramore.

Do you remember the time we went to the homecoming dance together and you cried in the passenger seat of my car?

It was after we took our cheesy group pictures, all of our parents finally backing off us for the rest of night, and we were going to eat before heading to the dance. I was driving; you were in the passenger seat, of course. Joe was in the back, with Marie settled in next to him, and Andy was going to meet us with the rest of his friends at Steak ‘n Shake — you know, the place we always ate for school dances and other late-night events, as part of tradition. It’s a miracle we all managed to get together on time, since we’re all nearly infamous for missing things. _I set my clocks early, because I know I’m always late._

We were all talking, venting about school, and all of a sudden you were crying because you were so stressed out over band, over that dickhead teacher, the one who’d threatened to kick you out of band even though you were one of the colorguard leaders. That _fucking_ teacher who told you that you were like “one of _those_ people”, the ones who look great in the dark, in the blur, when nobody could see them, but who weren’t pretty when you got too close. He wanted you to be scared of him, to stop standing up for the girls in the band, to just do what he said without questioning it, so he spit the nastiest words he could find right in your face, when you were alone.

Whatever he meant by all of that, it was complete bullshit. I still thought you were beautiful, inside and out. You were my best friend, for god’s sake, and I had secretly loved you for god knows how long. Of _course_ he was wrong. You didn’t deserve any of that.

And we weren’t dating yet — that wouldn’t happen for another month, at least, since my current girlfriend and I were teetering on the verge of our relationship, yet still clinging on — but I reached over and wiped your tears away as best as I could anyway, with one hand still on the wheel, and then I took your hand in mine. I intertwined our fingers over the cupholder; yours: pale and freckled, calloused from playing every instrument known to man, mine: darker than yours for sure, long and slender, sculpted for playing the piano, a talent I never came around to. I squeezed your hand and told you it was gonna be okay. And I didn’t let go.

Not for months — not when I finally broke up with her, and you grabbed my hand and laughed and joked that I was free to date _you_ , now. Not for a week after that, when you confessed to me you’d only been half-joking. Not when I kissed you on the hillside, while the sun was disappearing beyond the horizon, and the leaves were falling down around us. Not when I kissed you in the stairwell, in the parking lot, in your car. Not when we were “watching movies” in your basement the week before Halloween, not when we went to the park at night for Valentine’s Day and I told you I wanted to memorize your freckles so I could kiss them all, not when we used to bring each other flowers when either of us had a bad day, not when you kissed me in the middle of the hallway, in front of everyone, because you were tired of being ashamed of being gay.

I never let go throughout any of that. I was never the one who was going to. It was you, ultimately, who shook me off and left me stranded, you who pushed me out of your life. You got tired of me, just like they always do. You wanted out. I don’t blame you.

Do you remember any of that, Patrick? Do you ever go back to homecoming night when you’re thinking of me, if you even do? Do you think of that sometimes when you remember how you let go of my hand for good?

Oh, well. _Trade baby blues. Pawn shop heart, trading up._


End file.
